I wrote this about my chiari at 2am this morning. Then the picture is a screenshot of Google ai. I pasted what I wrote and it summarized it. I like the summary.
There is a silence lodged inside my skull—
not peace, but pressure.
Not quiet, but a hum
that pulses with every thought I try to form.
No one sees the weight I carry
hanging from the base of my brain
like a pendulum made of nerve and bone,
swinging in slow, merciless circles.
They don’t hear the thunder
that lives behind my eyes,
or how gravity itself betrays me—
pulling too hard,
always pulling too hard.
I live between migraines and mourning,
between the moment I wake
and the moment I wish I hadn’t.
My body is a blueprint
redrawn without consent.
Rain doesn’t just fall—it presses.
Air itself becomes an enemy.
And I grow smaller in the shadow of each day,
fighting a ghost stitched into my brain.
Even now,
as night drags it’s cold hands across my neck,
I lie here awake,
feeling every heartbeat
like a nail tapping softly
at the base of a locked door.
I miss who I was
before I knew the name Chiari—
before I learned that some pain
does not heal,
it becomes you.
And sometimes,
on the worst nights,
I wonder if the pain is the only thing
that never left me.
